Saturday, December 20, 2014

Author's Note: In the timeline of Kiki's life this comes right before Handmade, Holiday, Homicide (Book #10)

“I saw this online and bought it
for the store. I thought it appropriate,” said my friend Clancy Whitehead, as
she handed me a wrapped present. In her tailored brown slacks, ivory silk
blouse, and camel-colored cardigan, Clancy was the picture of elegance.

Meanwhile, I’m still wearing my
maternity pants with the elastic panels. Although I tell myself that eventually
the weight will come off, it’ll probably take forever. It seems like I've been
pregnant forever, and frankly I’m feeling a little down. That’s probably one
reason that Clancy bought me a gift.

My low mood is silly, because I
have so much to be thankful for. My name is Kiki Lowenstein, and I own Time in
a Bottle, a scrapbooking and crafts store in St. Louis. I’m the mother of two
adorable kids and one on the way. In fact, I’m due the second week in January.
My other half is a hunky cop, Detective Chad Detweiler. He’s unofficially my fiancé.
We plan to get married, as soon as we can find the time.

Life is good, mainly.

I was fifteen years younger the last time I was expecting, and I wasn’t working
full-time, so to say life is “hectic” is an understatement.

Tonight starts the first of our Double-Dip Classes. Like
the old Doublemint Gum commercials, we’re offering not one but two fantastic
learning experiences. I’m excited about the projects I have planned for our
scrapbookers. But I’m also a tad worried, because Iona Lippman has signed up
for both classes. She can be a bit rough around the edges.

“Go on,” prompted Clancy. “Open the
gift.”

After my fingers carefully pried
apart the pink polka dot tissue paper, I discovered an adorable sign nestled
inside: “All our guests please us. Some by their coming, and some by their
going.”

“Iona is definitely a ‘goer,’” said Clancy. “You can’t
please her, Kiki. She’ll always find something to complain about. That’s who
she is. So just relax about the classes tonight and try to have fun. Don’t let
her ruin the evening.”

“Thank you,” I told my friend, “for
everything.”

Clancy being Clancy, she gave me a self-satisfied smile.
She’s not much of a touchy-feely person, but she’s a wonderful friend.

“You’ve got all your prep done?”
she asked. “Anything I can do?”

“I’m fine. First we’re doing the Keepsake Recipe Album. The
assignment was for each scrapbooker to bring in a recipe that her family
enjoys. A main dish. She should also have a photo of the food. Of course, if
that’s not possible, we’ll work with just the recipe and leave a place on the
scrapbook page for the photo. I assume all of them have been in to choose their
albums?”

“Yes. Iona came in Friday. She doesn’t like the 8- by
8-inch size. She also didn’t like the color of the album cover.” Clancy pulled
up a chair across from my big desk. Resting her face on her hands, she
shrugged. “I told her you might have suggestions for customizing the cover.”

“I do.”

“What’s the second class?” asked
Clancy.

“It’s called Tips from Interior
Designers,” I said, withdrawing my handout from the bottom desk drawer. “Many
interior designers use a 60-30-10 rule when working with colors. The dominant
shade should cover 60 percent of the page, then two other colors would be 30
and 10 percent. I’m also showing the scrapbookers how they can ‘translate’ a
photo of an interior design into a scrapbook page layout.”

As it happened, Clancy was a
lifesaver. Two hours later, after listening to Iona complain non-stop about her
album, I was happy to have someone there to keep me from throttling the woman.
Iona started complaining the minute she crossed our threshold. As far as I
could tell, she didn’t even pause to take a breath.

“Not only do I hate everything
about this album. I don’t want a recipe book full of main courses. My specialty
is dessert.”

She pushed my sample album off to one side, as she
pouted at me.

I gritted my teeth. “Good. Since Christmas isn't that far away, your assignment is to bring
your favorite dessert and its recipe.”

“I’ll bring my Red Velvet Cake,” said Lisa Ferguson.

“No way!” shouted Iona. “I have my
great-great-grandmother’s special Red Velvet Cake recipe. It’s been passed down
from the oldest daughter to oldest daughter. No one outside the family has ever
seen it.”

“Whoa!” I spread my hands in what I hope was a placating
gesture. “You can both bring your red velvet recipes. Since these are your
personal cookbooks, duplication won’t be a problem.”

“There won’t be any duplication,” sniffed Iona, as she
tugged her sleeves over her hands. Her fingers were chaffed and red from the
cold. “My family recipe is simply the best. It’s never been copied. Not even
close.”

“Suit yourself,” said Lisa, as she adjusted her cowl neck
sweater. The weather had been unseasonably bitter. Most of my customers wore
boots and gloves. Lisa was no exception. She’d arrived bundled up in a parka.

By contrast, Iona had worn a lightweight wool coat and kept
her bare hands shoved deeply into her pockets.

I guess she had her
anger to keep her warm.

The two women couldn’t have been more different. Iona
bragged about every aspect of her life from her husband’s upcoming retirement
plans to her own free time for crafting. Lisa had said nearly nothing. Iona was
in her mid-sixties, and Lisa couldn’t have been more than thirty. Probably in
her mid-twenties. While Iona had lots of free time, I knew Lisa came to our
sessions straight from work, and she kept checking the time because her
babysitter had to leave promptly at nine.

Usually the age difference is helpful in my classes. Like
in the quilting bees of old, women bond and share their experiences. The older
generation guides the younger, while the younger imparts an energy and
hopefulness that my seniors often have forgotten.

But not this time, and not this group. The age difference
only seemed to cause more friction.

“Now that we have the matter of next week’s recipes
settled,” I said, “Let’s turn our attention to Part Two of our Double-Dip. If
you’d open your page kits, you’ll see I’ve already chosen your embellishments
and paper for this cute scrapbook page. Clancy is passing around a copy of HGTV
Magazine with a picture of the room that inspired this page.”

“That does it,” snarled Iona.
“Kiki, every layout you do involves expensive embellishments.”

Clancy shot me a look over the
heads of our customers. I could read my friend’s thoughts as easily as if she’d
spoken to me: “Great…now what?”

**

One week later…

"How's Erik doing?" asked my friend Clancy, as
she handed me the supplies for the second of our Double-Dip Classes.

"He still misses his mother and father, but he’s
looking forward to Christmas.”

Back in August, Detweiler and I were shocked to get a
message that he had a son living in California. Later we learned that his first
wife had been pregnant when she ran off and left him. But the boy wasn’t
Detweiler’s natural son. Instead, Erik was the child of an affair between his
first wife, Gina, and one of Detweiler’s co-workers.

That said, Gina had left specific instructions in her will
that if anything happened to her and her second husband, Van Lauber, that she
wanted Detweiler to take her child, Erik, home to live with him. Because
Detweiler and Gina were still legally married when she gave birth to Erik—and because
she put Detweiler’s name on the birth certificate—Erik was legally Detweiler’s
child, even though the boy was biracial and not Detweiler's biological son.

One look at Erik and Detweiler had fallen hopelessly in
love with the child. I felt the same. Now we were doing our best to help the
little guy get through the grieving process, since he’d lost both his mother,
Gina, and his stepfather, Van, in a fatal car accident.

“Erik’s such a cutie pie.” Clancy broke open packages of
supplies. “He and Anya getting along?”

My daughter had been an only child of thirteen when she learned
that she would become the big sister to not one, but two boys. In fact, she'd been with me when a sonogram confirmed the baby I was carrying was a boy.

“So far so good. I think she likes being in charge. She
gets that from her grandmother, Sheila.”

My job was to put the pieces in a plastic baggy and slap on
our new store label. I was particularly proud of the image—a glass jar filled
with watches and the words "Time in a Bottle"—because I'd created the
logo myself. Since the watches were every color in the rainbow, the logo went
with everything! That was important because we had customers who loved bright
colors, those who favored pastels, and some who liked neutrals.

Yes, every guest who walked through our doors was unique in
every way, except for one: They all loved saving memories. It was our job to
help them do just that.

"No sibling rivalry?" Clancy raised an eyebrow.

"They're adjusting. Erik has bad dreams, as you might
imagine. Anya came up with a dream catcher and hung it over his bed. I have no
idea where she got it. Must have ordered it online.”

“Is it working?”

“Seems to be.”

"She's a smart kid," said Clancy, as she cast an
eye at our big black clock. "T-minus ten minutes and counting."

As usual, Clancy was dressed as if she stepped out of a
Talbot's catalog. Tonight she was wearing a pink knit top and gray pants. I
wondered how long it would take me to get back into “real” clothes.

"I think the women will like the layout I created for
the dessert page in their cookbook albums, but the second
portion of the evening is bound to be more challenging." Iona and Avery Ailes had complained about the high cost of
scrapbook layouts. They had dared me to come up with thrifty ways to create and
embellish their pages. I'd been working feverishly all week to do just that.

I crossed my fingers that the two women would like what I'd
done. Just then, the door minder rang. In walked Iona, dragging her Cropper
Hopper behind her.

"Showtime," said Clancy.

One session down and one to go. I had managed to keep Iona and Lisa from duking it out over
the Red Velvet Cake. Iona's cake reallywasbetter. The hints of buttermilk and
vanilla were scrumptious. She glowed with pride as we devoured our slices. Lisa
said very little as she went to work diligently on her cookbook page. Maybe her
feelings were hurt.

Time to move on.

"One of the quickest, easiest and cheapest ways to
save money on any scrapbook layout is to make your own embellishments. I'm
going to share a few new ideas for raw materials around your house that you can
turn into embellishments. Are you ready?"

The women nodded at me with their pens poised to take notes.

"Hang tags from purchases—these I cover with
paper or paint with acrylics before adding stickers or stamping on them.Labels from cans—these can be
scanned or used as is.Greeting
cards—I carefully cut around the images. Sometimes I use Diamond Glaze and
a little glitter to spice them up.Old
children's books—the images in these are adorable. Use 'as is' or add
Diamond Glaze.Pages from old
books—either use these as background paper or cut them into the shapes.
They also make great flowers!Fabric—glue
it or sew it directly to your paper. Scan or photocopy a design you like.Bottle caps—use them flat side
down or flat side up. Either way you can add letter stickers. I've also colored
them and used them in a row as a border of dots.Styrofoam trays—wash them, dry
them, cut them into shapes, and paint them with acrylics.Gift wrap—can be used as
background paper or you can select a special image and cut it out.Packaging—I reused the package
of the perfume I got for Christmas. I flattened it and cut it into circles for
embellishments."

At that point I paused. "Any questions?"

"And if we don't have access to a copier or a
computer," asked Avery. "Then what do we do?"

"Calm down," I said, making placating motions
with my hands. "It has to be around here somewhere, Iona. You know how
things get covered up by papers. Or they get swept off the table inadvertently.
Let's not go accusing anyone of mischief."

With that bold pronouncement of my
faith in human beings, and scrapbookers in particular, I put myself in a
ticklish spot. The burden of finding her recipe card now rested squarely on my
shoulders.

For the next thirty minutes, we
tore the class area apart. All of the classmates participated in the treasure
hunt. We went through piles of paper, one sheet at time. We looked in the
copier. We opened the paper bags I had taped to each cropper's work space. I
even got down on my hands and knees and crawled around on the floor. When the
recipe card didn't show up, I expanded our search area. When I bought Time in a
Bottle, we didn't have enough space for our classes. The display shelves took
up all the available room. To make enough space for our sessions, I'd put those
same display shelves on wheels so they could be rolled to one side. Now, I
rolled the shelves this way and that, scouring the store for the missing 3- by
5-inch card.

"You don't understand," said Iona, with a hitch
in her voice. "That recipe has been in my family for generations. We've
passed it down from mother to daughter. I can't go home without it. I just
can't!"

She started howling with misery,
while her friend Avery Ailes patted her consolingly on the shoulder.

Clancy sidled over to me and whispered
in my ear, "You can’t win. You realize that, don't you? If you search each
of our customers for the card, you're admitting someone probably took it. If
you don't, you're letting someone walk away with Iona's recipe. Either way,
people are going to be mad at you. They'll talk about this, and they'll take it
out on the store."

My friend was right. And I had no
idea what to do next.

"How about if I share a few
thrifty ideas for albums?" I said, in an overly perky voice. "Let's
give ourselves time to think. Maybe the recipe will show up. In fact, I'll even
offer a sweetener. The person who finds the recipe will get a $50 gift
certificate to the store."

Yes, it was a lot of money, but I
was desperate to save my store's reputation. The potential bribe worked. The
women all took their seats and listened intently.

"We all know how expensive
albums can be," I said. "And normally I'd be the last person
discouraging you from buying a pricey album to showcase your prized family
photos."

At that, my customers chuckled.

The sound relaxed me just a little,
and I continued, "Sometimes you aren't scrapbooking to create an heirloom.
In the immortal words of that wise woman Cyndi Lauper, 'Girls just want to have
fun,' right? Having fun doesn't necessarily mean you need an expensive binder
for your layouts.”

"There are a lot of other ways
you can collect and display your photos.” I described and displayed many
examples. “A child's board book—use sandpaper to scuff up the shiny
pages. That'll make gluing new paper over them much easier.Catalogs and magazines—glue
together four or five thin pages, cover these with nice paper, and decorate
them.Paper bags—stack
four lunch bags on top of each other, alternating the open side. Fold them in
half. Open them up to reveal the fold line. Stitch them together at the fold
line.Fabric—Cut pieces of
pre-washed cotton fabric in a 12- by 12-inch size or larger. Stack them and sew
them together down one of the edges. Cover that edge with bias binding. Glue
your photos directly onto the material.Toilet
paper roll cones—flatten them, stack them, and punch holes in one of the
short ends. Thread them together with ribbon or a metal ring clip. Each cone
can act as a page or a pocket.Ring
binders—buy a package of 8- by 11-inch page protectors and treat the ring
binders like you would any other album.Drink
coasters—punch a hole in them and attach them to each other pearl
necklace-style with twine, or ribbon or metal rings. Either cover the coasters
with paper or paint them with gesso."

I paused to see how my ideas were
going over. My customers were frantically taking notes. The samples I'd put
together were being examined with great enthusiasm. Maybe the entire evening
wasn't going to be a bust after all.

But how was I going to find that
missing recipe? Right then, the front door swung open.

"Don't look now, but the cavalry has finally
arrived," said Clancy, and in walked my fiancé, Detective Chad Detweiler.

The scrapbookers seemed willing, so we took a break. As
they got up from their chairs, I noticed that Lisa Ferguson hesitated.

Could she be hiding something?

But that didn't make sense.

She had her own Red Velvet Cake recipe. Why would she take
Iona's?

While the women crowded around the food table, I motioned
my husband over to Lisa's things.

Trying to act casual, I said, "We've been working on a
recipe album. Lisa? You don't mind if I show Detweiler yours, do you?"

She froze like a deer when your headlights hit it.

"Uh…no." Her words didn't match her body language.

I opened the album and went through it page by page. When I
got to the Red Velvet Cake recipe, I withdrew it and studied it. That's when I
realized what was wrong.

To my horror, Lisa started crying. "This is all your
fault, Iona. I did it for your daughter-in-law Bethany. She and I have been
friends for years. Why couldn't you do the decent thing and share your recipe
with her? Your son Mason is leaving Texas and going off to Afghanistan. All
Bethany wanted was to make him one of his mother's famous red velvet cakes
before he goes. But would you share the recipe with her? No. You're mean!"

A fat tear dripped down the woman's cheek. "Now that I
see how all of you feel, I realize…I was wrong. That silly recipe doesn't
matter that much, does it?"

We looked at her and shook our heads no.

"Kiki? Would you make copies of it for everybody?"
Iona shoved the card into my hand.

"I'll be glad to."

"Since she's in such a generous mood, see if you can
bring a couple of slices home with you tonight. I'm thinking I'd like to sit
down with my wife after dinner and have a dessert," said Detweiler, and
then he kissed my neck and added, "or two."

~ The End ~

Although Ilona didn't want to share her Red Velvet Cake Recipe, I was fortunate
that three of my readers shared these yummy concoctions. Many thanks to all
three!

Friday, December 19, 2014

Detective
Chandler Louis Detweiler took my hand and helped me up the last step of the
gazebo. Standing side-by-side, we faced the minister, our friend Lorraine. I
loved feeling of his shoulder against mine, strong and solid, a reminder of the
way we intended to live our lives.

"Not
too bad for a wedding thrown together in forty-eight hours," he whispered
in my ear.

He was
right. I hadn't had much time to plan our wedding, although I had been planning
to marry Chad Detweiler ever since I met him nearly three years ago. I kept
telling myself that the ceremony was only a formality, but deep down, I wanted
to wear a wedding band again. And even if the marriage didn't matter to us—to
Detweiler and me—it mattered terribly to our two kids, and to the baby who
would make his appearance less than a month from now.

In
fact, one could argue that we'd hurried to the chapel because of the bump in my
belly. Initially I'd planned to start working on a ceremony immediately after
Christmas, because business would slow down in my retail store. Detweiler and I
had even talked about flying our whole family to Las Vegas, until my friend
Clancy Whitehead shook her head and said, "Uh, you're eight months along.
They don't allow people that pregnant on a plane."

Oops.

Who knew?

So
I'd tabled the whole project, noted it in my calendar for revisiting after
December 25, and I would have put the idea out of my head, except for something
Erik said.

Have
you ever noticed that when riding in the back seat of the car, kids come up
with the darnedest things? After I picked five-year-old Erik and his sister,
thirteen-year-old Anya, up from the house that my sisters share with my mother,
he explained to me that because Detweiler and I weren't married, our son would
be a "littermate."

"A
littermate?" I glanced back in the rearview mirror. Erik's solemn face
stared at me. His chocolate brown eyes, his mocha-colored skin, and his red
hair a testimony to his biracial beginnings. He might not be the child of my
womb, but he's certainly the child of my heart. I adore that little boy.

"I
don't understand what you mean, sweetie," I said to him.

Anya
turned from her seat on the passenger side, she rolled her eyes and explained,
"He means i-l-l-e-g-i-t-i-m-a-t-e."

It
took me a while to put those letters into a world. When I did, I almost drove
off the road. "Uh, Erik, honey? Who was talking to you about the baby
being a ...littermate?"

"Grandma
Collins," he said.

"That
figures."

My
mother. That paragon of parenthood.

I
gritted my teeth. That did it. My Mom moved one step closer to an apartment in
assisted living. In fact, the only problem with putting her there immediately
was financial. Because she'd only recently transferred her assets to my sister,
Amanda, any facility that accepted her could access her savings. My sister had
been begging my mother for years to transfer her money into Amanda's name. My
mother would respond by getting angry and saying, "I'm perfectly capable
of handling my own finances. How do I know you won't steal me blind?"

Over
the past year, Mom's physical and mental health had declined dramatically. The
three of us siblings—Catharine, Amanda and I—talked at least once a week about
what to do next. Not only was Mom meaner than a water moccasin with a sunburned
belly, she'd also fallen twice. My sister Catherine ran out for a carton of
milk and came back to a fire in the kitchen. Mom had turned on the oven and
forgotten about it.

A
peculiar smell emanated from my mother's room. Amanda took her out for lunch,
while Catherine and I investigated. We found a small pumpkin shoved in the back
of her closet. Since Halloween was nearly three months ago, the pumpkin had not
fared well.

In
the area of personal hygiene, Mom was also slipping, fast.

But
this calling my child "illegitmate" marked a new low, even for her.

I
told myself to shrug it off. To consider the source. But Anya turned her denim
blue eyes on me and said, "She's right, Mom."

"Don't
worry," I said. "Detweiler and I still have plenty of time to tie the
knot."

Two
hours later, the contractions started.

~To Be Continued~

Shotgun,
Wedding, Bells will be available for pre-order early
January 2015.